


Hello (from the outside)

by igrab



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrab/pseuds/igrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They move together in battle like a symphony, all parts equal. Distance fighters by preference, but not helpless in close quarters. Tech talents to biotic sparks. And, more than anything, they would both lay down their lives if it meant keeping their Commander safe.</p>
<p>Some things, however, they cannot protect her from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kestrel Shepard: Spacer, Sole Survivor, Sentinel, Paragon (pics as soon as i can make my devices behave)
> 
> my shepard ends up being a lot more diplomatic and... graceful? than the usual characterization, idk. 
> 
> this is basically just me writing out my extensive feelings on the subject of alien romance. i legitimately don't know where this is going, i only just started ME3. i suppose we shall see!

_I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet_

Garrus hangs back, watching Shepard chase Liara down the balcony, catching her again and again. This isn’t his, he doesn’t get to have this—even if, when they were chasing down Saren, they had been an unstoppable triad, perfectly in tune. This is about _them_ , about what they had, the obvious and immediate attraction, affection. The way they’d looked at each other like it meant the whole world. He’s always known he never really had a chance.

He tries to keep his distance, but he still hears it, when Liara’s shout bangs down the corridor. “Yes, you came back! And now Garrus is doing a lot more than just calibrating the Normandy’s guns!”

He doesn’t hear Shepard’s response. He doesn’t need to. He wants to throw himself off the balcony. He never should have—he knew better. Spirits, he knew better, and now he has to live with the consequences.

* * *

After the news breaks, Garrus fumbles for his comm, feeling desperate and ill. 

Liara’s holo flickers into view, and he doesn’t even need to ask. Her face says it all, even through a projection—eyes hollow and unseeing, posture crumpled. 

“How,” he manages, before the previously sweet, shy asari cuts him off in a tone that chills him to the bone.

“I’m going after her body.”

He’s only just confirmed that this is real, hearing it like that—it’s like cold water dumped over his head. He growls, subvocals a discordant twang. “That’s stupid,” he says, and what he actually means is, _I’m not ready. She can’t be. Body—no. No. That’s wrong._

He forgets the rest of the conversation, only knowing that whatever rapport they’d shared, whatever... friendship they might’ve entertained, something broke that day. They’d both lost something infinitely precious, and instead of being able to comfort one another, they’d sundered. Liara leaves to chase her ghosts, and Garrus... 

Well, Garrus figures he’s pretty much already dead.

* * *

The door to the main battery closes shut behind her, and Garrus has to sit down. Hard.

Spirits, did that really just happen?

If he was a good man, a better man, he’d think about the framed picture on the Commander’s desk. Instead, he thinks about the tight look at the corners of her eyes, just days ago, when they’d finally docked at Illium and rushed to Liara’s office and—

Okay, no, he doesn’t want to think about that. The way Shepard’s hopeful face had grown dim, then slowly shut down. The way she’d walked out of the office, taken in a deep breath. Poked at her omni-tool, as if confirming the location of the terminals Liara had asked her to hack, and.... set out the other way.

“Let’s go find this Thane Krios,” she’d said instead. Garrus had glanced over at Mordin, not surprised to find the look returned in kind, all too knowing. 

Speaking of Mordin.

“Sorry to bother you,” Garrus says, but Mordin waves an impatient hand.

“Not a bother. Always welcome, skilled hands mostly useful, occasionally extraneous......... respectful, though. Never a problem. Something I can do for you?”

Garrus likes Mordin. More than he should, probably, given his history with salarian scientists, but there’s something about him, something that just makes him want to know more. His absolute conviction in himself, in his beliefs. In doing the right thing. In impossible odds.

Hell, they’d both ended up on Omega, the vilest den of miscreants in the galaxy, and tried to do what they could to make things better. So maybe, it isn’t all that strange.

What’s strange is that he now has to tell his friend that Commander Kestrel Motherfucking Shepard Herself just chatted him up, and this is a terrible idea for many, many reasons, some of which require _backstory_ , and yet—

And yet.

“Hmm,” Mordin says, and he’s actually stopped what he’s doing for a moment, which both floors and terrifies Garrus. He really isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with Mordin’s undivided attention being turned towards _sloppy interspecies makeouts_.

“Is that a bad ‘hmm’ or a good ‘hmm’?” Garrus tries for humor, misses, trips on his own metaphorical tongue and plunges into the Awkward Abyss, never to return.

Thankfully—and another reason Garrus cannot be grateful enough for Mordin Solus—the salarian scientist would never allow himself to be fettered by things like social awkwardness or conversational roadblocks.

“Yes. Both. Most likely. I am not an emotional expert by any means, but knowing you both, existing psychological profiles somewhat relevant, align with personal experience, Shepard is, not who I would worry about.” The doctor looks at him. Smiles. Frankly, it’s almost unnerving. “If she is simply using you while feeling shunned by Dr. T’Soni, results indicate she will survive unscathed. You, destroyed.”

Never mind. Talking to Mordin was obviously the worst possible idea.

“I have to go, uh, calibrate, things,” Garrus says, because he is _smooth_ as _fuck_ , and then he runs.

* * *

He likes Thane instantly, too, for completely different reasons. Yeah, yeah, they’re both snipers, rivalry and all that, but that’s not it. On the contrary, it seems like Thane’s utterly uninterested in fighting anything at all, he’s so... languid. Chill. Forgiving. Relaxed. He’s, okay, he’s a lot of things that Garrus has wished he could be. Maybe that would have pissed him off, but—he watches as Shepard patiently listens to what he has to say. Understands him, the way that she’d understood Liara, back on the original Normandy. Cosmic shit. Big shit. And Garrus isn’t a fucking plebian, he.... he feels it, too. He’s just _awkward_. He runs at the mouth. He doesn’t know how to say things like that and mean them, though part of him aches for it.

He thinks—he hopes—that Thane understands.

He hears them, sometimes, murmuring quietly in the arid Life Support area. He’s not _eavesdropping_ or anything—EDI would call him out, probably—but he slows down when he leaves the men’s room, enough to catch the rhythm of their voices. Soothing. Wise. Fond, probably.

Not five minutes later, Shepard’s catching him by the collar of his suit and smirking up at him. He would swear he could feel the heat of her body, even through the armor, through those long gloves she wears. (It doesn’t escape his notice that her new duds for roaming the Normandy look an awful lot like the science pajamas Liara used to wear. On the other hand, _those gloves_.) So it’s not jealousy he feels, not really, when he first hears Thane call her _siha_.

Actually, it’s not jealousy at all.

They move together in battle like a symphony, all parts equal. Distance fighters by preference, but not helpless in close quarters. Tech talents to biotic sparks. And, more than anything, they would both lay down their lives if it meant keeping their Commander safe.

Some things, however, they cannot protect her from.

They hang back at the entrance to Liara’s apartment in silent mutual agreement not to get in the way. The revelations of the past few hours have been draining, all the more so to be here, in her space, and to see the pained look come over Shepard’s face when she realizes how grief has warped her beloved.

Something Garrus knew all along, and didn’t mention, because he’s a grade-A shitbag.

Or rather, because grief has warped him, too. 

He doesn’t know what Thane’s thinking at the best of times, but now, in the field, he’s impassive as a smooth river stone, hands deceptively gentle as they cradle his rifle. Garrus was there when they found Kolyat, though, and he knows Thane has a keen understanding of what’s going on here. 

And Garrus is suddenly, fiercely glad, that Thane never had to live through Shepard’s death. Spirits, he is _glad_.

They decide in a matter of moments who will take the third seat in the borrowed cab, while Shepard is still trying to hide how Liara’s indifference hurts. Thane’s fingertips brush along Garrus’s palm as he hands over his spare thermal clips, black eyes soul-deep.

_She is hurting_ , the look says, all too clearly. _Keep her safe, dahan._ He can almost hear it, like one of those bizarre relived moments that Thane falls into sometimes. 

He nods, curtly. There’s nothing they can do, not really, but damn if they won’t try.

* * *

Garrus lets himself into the Life Support room, isn’t surprised at all when Thane calls his name without looking. Not exactly an impressive feat, when there’s only one turian on board.

“Liara knows,” he says, and is surprised to hear his subvocals shot to shit, raw and scratchy with emotion.

“Considering her profession, I am not surprised.” Thane’s voice, too, has a subharmonic twinge, a low note of vibration that he hasn’t really taken note of before. Probably because gunshots don’t make for a great acoustic atmosphere. He still hasn’t turned around, though, and instead of forcing the eye contact, Garrus slides down the wall, knees tucked up under his chin.

“It’s not like it’s common knowledge.” He’s once again surprised at the tone of his voice, all snappish and borderline unpleasant, and really? Is he really that upset about this? “It wasn’t... it’s nothing. It was always going to be nothing, compared to. You know.” 

_Her._

He isn’t expecting the drell to twist in his seat, leather scraping along the seat as he fixes Garrus with two piercing, fathomless eyes. “Do not belittle yourself.”

A sharp, humorless noise escapes his throat, and he smacks a palm on the floor. “Okay, seriously, why does everyone act like I’m head over heels for her or something?”

The indignation falls flat as Thane simply keeping looking at him. Waiting. For his fire to burn itself out.

“.......Yeah, okay,” he mutters, and curls in tighter on himself. “So I’m obvious, I guess. Big deal.” Even to his own ears, he sounds brittle, bitter. As if mocking himself would make it any better.

“There is no shame in it, _dahan_ ,” Thane murmurs. It’s not the first time he’s called him that, though usually it’s in between quips in the field (the first time, on the Citadel, hunting Sidonis, and Garrus had palmed him a thermal clip while Shepard was doing her thing. A smile had quirked at the drell’s lips and he’d dryly murmured ‘Thanks, _dahan_ ’).

“What does that even mean?”

Finally, Thane turns, twisting in his chair (stupid graceful drell) and tilting his head curiously at Garrus. “I am surprised it took you this long to ask.”

“Well, you know.” He tips his head to one side like he does when he’s nervous, rubs the itchy spot on his neck where the broken armor chafes. “Never really felt like a good time, under fire and all.”

“And in between?” That look on his face is definitely a smirk or something, Garrus knows that much.

“I’ve been, uh. Calibrating, the. You know.” Wow, smooth talker.

Thane only hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with that. “Amonkira, Lord of the Hunters, knew that even the best could not go into battle alone. His _dahan_ remained at his side, offering advice, a second pair of eyes and ears, and most importantly, his love and loyalty. For as each of us is body and soul, together forming a Whole, so too does a heart find Wholeness when it walks alongside another, beating in time.”

Garrus gapes at him, truly gapes. What… what?

Thane’s hand tightens at his eyes widen, suddenly seeing something not there, and words are pouring from him in an unstoppable wave. “He is focused on the mission, on his revenge, he is emotional, but instead of distracting him, it fuels him. Strange, I think. Strange, and beautiful, and when my _siha_ tells him to stay, he stays, though his breath is harsh, heavy, he is so close. I am not involved, but I am, because I care about her and she cares about him and I think I do too, strange, so strange. My thoughts distract me and I pull the trigger but nothing happens, because I—and before I know it, he is reaching out, not even looking at me. His hand, gloved, fingers too few, but how strong they are, how deft. I take it. I am involved, now. I am his, as surely as he is hers, and I am hers, and she is ours, and then there is nothing but silence, gunshots, and his voice, laughing.” Thane comes back to himself, but he finishes the memory. “He shouts, ‘one down!’, and moves on.”

Garrus has nothing to say to that. There’s so much he _wants_ to say, that’s the worst part, because that— _that_. He wants to be the kind of person who can deserve _that_. But all he has is bad humor and awkwardness, and hope that Thane will understand what it really means.

“So… not an insult, then?”

Thane laughs, and even with his eyes full black, Garrus can tell they’re sparkling. “Indeed not. _Dahan_.”

* * *

The door to the Main Battery slides open, and it’s—

“Garrus,” Liara says, her voice quiet. “Can we… talk?”

He puts a lock on the door that he’s sure Shepard could hack in under twenty seconds, in case it’s urgent. “EDI, can you…”

“Recording suspended. Let me know when you’d like me to return.”

Liara’s looking at the globe of the AI with unmasked curiosity, and for one moment—one tiny, unguarded moment—everything seems just as it was two years ago, when the three of them were as close as anyone could get.

“Fascinating,” she murmurs. “I knew the technology existed, of course, but seeing her in action is… sublime.”

And it’s gone, the knowledge of everything that’s passed rushing back in with an almost audible pop. Garrus can’t help the whining flange in his subvocals, the way his mandibles are curled tight to his face in worry and submission. He doesn’t need confirmation to know that Liara knows it, too.

“Did you have a nice night?” he says, because he has the _worst_ timing in the _universe_ and gets progressively more awkward the more nervous he gets. So, lots. Lots and lots.

“Yes,” Liara murmurs, quiet and truthful, but she sounds wistful. Sad. “It was… wonderful. Shepard is… far more forgiving a person than I expected, or rightly deserve.”

A pause, Garrus swallowing down his little trill of distress. He doesn’t need to hear this, not now. “I’m… getting the sense there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

She laughs and it’s hollow, somehow, none of her spirit in it. “Indeed there is. I… asked her a question. One that I perhaps should not have asked, but… I was trying to find a way to tell her how much her death changed me.” Garrus watched her swallow. “I asked her to promise that she would return.”

Oh. He got it, then, a little. Because… “And she lied.”

“Oh, yes.” The smile that grew now on the asari’s face wasn’t any happier, but it was more genuine, softer. “And I realized, that two years ago, the Shepard I knew would not have needed to hesitate to tell me the truth. She wanted to spare my pain, to save everyone, which you and I both know is at the heart of everything our Commander does. But before she died, she trusted me.” A pause, then Liara shakes her head. “No—I mean to say that, before she died… I was someone she could trust.” She draws in a deep, shaky breath, then lets it out slower, and steadier. “And two years ago, I would not have known she was lying.”

So there it was, then, Garrus thinks, dazed and strangely honored to be the bearer of this information. Oh, he didn’t doubt that Shepard thought everything was fine, but he’d seen the way she carefully chose her realities, to survive the weight of an entire universe’s well-being. She hadn’t admitted anything was wrong before, why would she do so now? But Liara knew, and now Garrus does. This is the beginning of the end.

“Perhaps, if—if nothing goes wrong.” And they’re both aware of just how likely that is. “If she is still interested, perhaps we will start something new. Meet each other again, as it were.” 

He swallows. He has to ask. “Do you think—”

“No,” she says, interrupting. “Statistically, it’s less likely than the outcome of this mission. I have faith in Shepard, and I believe she will find a way to save us—but I very much doubt she’ll ever be able to trust me again.” 

And then, the most miraculous of things occurs. Liara smiles, and for the first time since that fateful call those two years ago, Garrus sees it light up her whole face, a true, happy smile. “My life has only just begun, Garrus. I’m excited to see what the centuries will bring, even after you are all gone. It’s a reality I was always ready to face. I… will miss her dearly, but I will be fine. Besides,” and she reaches up, brushes blue fingertips along the line of Garrus’s scars. “She won’t be alone.”

She leaves him there, dumbfounded, staring vacantly at the battery doors and wondering when the fuck his life had gotten so insane. (Hint: it starts with ‘Commander’ and ends with ‘Shepard’.)


	2. Chapter 2

Her voice never wavers as she assigns them their positions, working through the Collector Base. She is strong and fearless, poised and steady, even when Garrus almost falls into her arms (but he’s all right, he is fine, thank Kalahira). Samara is burnt out, Legion still nursing several singed circuits, and Thane can only be grateful that Dr. Solus left to turn back with the crew. He knows that Shepard did it to protect him, and he is glad of it. They are all of them running ragged now.

Like this, backlit and shimmering with her tech shield, she looks every inch his _siha_. She speaks to them, and Thane can hear her conviction and strength in every word, lodging deep in all their hearts and holding them there. They are, all of them, running ragged, but ready. For her.

They know that Shepard always travels in a team of three. Two will follow, and the rest will hold the line. No one is under any delusions of who it will be.

She reaches out her right hand, and Garrus takes it, steps up on the platform next to her. Her left goes out to Thane, and he holds it tight as he does the same. 

He wants, inexplicably, for them to walk into certain death like this, just like this, each of them holding one of her hands.

They don’t, of course, but there is something between them as they move together deeper into the base. They are Whole. None of them truly complete without the other, though Whole within their bodies, together, they are far stronger. They are what they will need to be, to take on what lies ahead.

All three of them prefer rifles, taking out enemies before they get close enough to be a problem. Thane is accurate, but Garrus is fast, and Shepard does target assessment and coordinates their abilities. She signals to Thane, and they send out a dual biotic pulse in tandem; to Garrus, and they both execute an overload. Shepard frequently makes herself a target and lets her armor do the talking—before running off, skidding to a halt under cover, and firing three quick shots like she’s wielding a pistol, not a sniper rifle. He has never seen her look frightened by anything she encounters on the battlefield.

But now—

When the last of the tubes shatters, dropping the unfinished reaper out of sight, Thane happens to be looking at her face. What he sees is nothing short of pure, bone-deep, primitive terror.

Not when they first came upon it. Not while fighting under it, calling out when they see a chance to pinpoint the vulnerable tubes. No—his _siha_ waits until the battle is over, but then, it hits her. And she is terrified.

“Shepard,” he tries first, but there is no response. “ _Siha_.” Still nothing. He glances at Garrus, but Garrus is halfway between just as scared and awkwardly confused, and he only returns the glance with a wild-eyed look of helplessness. 

“Kestrel,” Thane says, and finally she turns, sucking in air like she’d forgotten how.

“Sorry,” she whispers. He shakes his head.

“Do not apologise, _siha_.” He holds out his hand, a thermal clip tucked in the palm. Mechanically, she pops her old one and slides it home. “We are not done here yet.”

A moment while her eyes close, and then the clouds clear from her face. She is Whole once again, strong enough to do what must be done—whether the Illusive Man likes it or not.

* * *

“You did the right thing,” Thane tells her, not for the first time. They had toasted Jacob’s memory, toasted their success, toasted whatever they could think of until everyone started to disperse, back to their quarters, exhaustion finally catching up.

Now it’s just, well, the inner-inner-circle, as Thane privately thought of it. The humans may follow Shepard on principle, or because she went out of her way to win them over, but Thane has always gotten the impression that she preferred the company of aliens. These aliens, in particular.

“And the noise it made!!” Grunt wasn’t deemed old enough to drink, but he was still so pumped up form the battle that it didn’t seem to matter to him. “So much destruction! Arrrgh, I can still _feel_ it!”

Shepard laughs. “Calm down, kid,” she says, pats him on the fringe—as enthusiastic as he sounds, he is tired enough to be sprawled on the floor, wedge-shaped head propped up against Shepard’s thigh. She, in turn, is leaning back against Garrus, tangled in one of his long arms, and Tali sways slightly at Shepard’s other side. She’s going to fall into Garrus’s lap if she isn’t careful, but—Thane doubts he would mind. Those three—Shepard, Tali, Garrus—they have been together the longest, kept true to one another throughout everything. They form another Whole, a different kind. Friends.

Samara sits with her legs folded next to Grunt. She has had as much to drink as any of them, but isn’t showing it at all, until she opens her mouth. Her words slur softly together, just a bit, enough to make her usual practiced tones sound sultry and mystical. It is a particularly good sound on her, Thane thinks. “I find myself amazed at what we managed to do. What I did. I had thought myself out of surprises, but.” She pauses, and they all pause, waiting to see where she’s going with it. Apparently, nowhere. She blinks at them. “…I am sorry. I… cannot remember what I was talking about.”

“Am not sorry I missed it,” Mordin comments. He, too, is on the floor—he has been sipping at his drink much more slowly, to compensate for his increased salarian metabolism, and while he can still speak as clearly and concisely as ever, his body has gone lax. “No desire for glory. Know my strengths, and weaknesses. Escorting crew… was good. A good thing. Surprised that I knew their names,” he adds with a grin. “Shouldn’t have been. Good people. Good crew.”

And Thane, for his part, is trying to keep from leaning into Garrus’s other side, but the alcohol is making it difficult to remember why. _Because he does not love you,_ his brain informs him, helpfully. _And Shepard does not know that you would give anything to stay with them, as close as they would let you, for whatever time you have left._

Ah, that was why Thane had stopped drinking, since the diagnosis. He was a maudlin, wistful drunk, sinking so easily into dark places.

But then a three-taloned hand curls itself in one of his, and he looks up to see a smile on that beautiful turian face.

“Hey,” Garrus murmurs, just for Thane. There… doesn’t seem to be any more to it.

“Hello,” Thane rumbles back.

Then he’s tipping his head up before his addled mind can prevent it, and Garrus is leaning down, and their foreheads press together, easily. Like this is how it always should be.

“Gods,” Thane breathes, voice a dry rasp.

“You should, uh,” Garrus mumbles, then falters, and falls silent. They’re still pressed together, and the turian nuzzles his head a little, back and forth, with a low rumbling of a purr. 

When they finally pull back and Thane opens his eyes, it’s to Shepard’s face, watching them. Much less drunk than any of the rest of them. Not judging. Just watching, something soft and precious in her hyacinth eyes. 

“I’ve got… kind of a weird proposition,” she starts, and before Garrus can even say anything, she presses a finger to his mouth plates. “ _No_ , it’s not that. Though…” she considers it for a moment, turns it over slowly in her head. Slowly, because she isn’t not drunk, either. “…Not tonight. Just, not tonight.” She draws in a breath, lets it out slow. Closes her eyes, and some of that dark color that human women use along their eye-lines has gotten smudged. She is still breathtaking. “I want… to sleep. With you, and Garrus. Just sleep.” Her eyes open again—this time, they ache. With vulnerability, exhaustion, fear and simple need. _Please, Thane_ , she begs, and he is momentarily surprised that she could possibly think him capable of saying no. “I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be alone.”

He swallows whatever sly comment he might’ve made. “You are never alone, _siha_ ,” he whispers. “Of course. That is, if…”

But he barely pauses to look up before Garrus is reassuring them. “I’d like to make it clear that I not only agree with this, I _approve_. I…” he trails off, meeting Thane’s eyes. “…I want this, too.”

_So,_ drunk Thane chimes back in. _Perhaps I am, I was, perhaps… wrong._

* * *

It is easier than it should be, he thinks. Somehow, he thinks it should be harder, more difficult, for three members of vastly differing species to climb in bed together, even simply to sleep. But Shepard fits neatly back against Garrus’s front— _They have done this before,_ drunk Thane informs him, was that really necessary?—and Thane is moving so slowly, fumbling with everything, because the UV lights in the fishtank are… swimming. Oh, Arashu, he is drunk.

“Thane,” Shepard whispers, “the bed’s over here, you know.”

“Hush,” he tells her. “I am… fine.”

Garrus snorts. “You are drunk.”

“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”

He finds the bed, falls into it. Shepard gently turns him to face out, and pulls him in to her chest. She tucks her face into the back of his neck, his head pillowed on her folded arm, the other sliding under his to cradle his chest. Lightly, of course. She carefully doesn’t put any pressure on his lungs, though he is sure she could not damage him. Her palm rests where his heart would be, if he were human.

She frowns, moves her hand until she finds it, then sighs peacefully and settles.

He cannot fall asleep.

He is mildly intoxicated, achingly comfortable, and so tired it hurts, but he cannot sleep. Something will not calm down, will not—

Garrus stretches his arm just a little further, enough to delicately cup the curve of Thane’s waist. He has his mandibles tangled in Shepard’s long, silky hair. “Go to sleep, beloved,” he murmurs, and that is all Thane remembers.

* * *

When he awakes, Garrus is gone, leaving the two of them alone.

Shepard yawns and pushes her face into his chest—at some point in the night, he turned over, cradling her in his arms. “Issit morning already?” she mumbles.

“Probably.” He strokes his fingertips through her hair, wonder expanding inside him like a balloon. _What gods have I pleased enough to be able to have this,_ he thinks. _Whoever it is, you have my thanks._

“I should get to the bridge.” She doesn’t move. Thane continues to stroke her hair. Such a lovely color, a light brown with warm streaks through it. Soft and straight, the tiny filaments catching on the texture of his hands in the most delightful way. 

“I am sure if it were something important, you would be notified,” he says smoothly. She thinks about this, accepts it. Relaxes against him with a sigh.

Hope is something Thane had spent so long without. The longer he didn’t have it, the more he felt he didn’t need it, until… until. Until this. Until her.

It is probable that they should talk about this. To the best of his knowledge, she still considers herself involved with Dr. T’Soni. But, she threw herself into Garrus’s arms with abandon the night before entering the Omega-4 relay, and now… this. Whether she intends anything by it, or…

No, this is not the time for such questions. He has made it clear how he feels, to each of them, and equally clear his selflessness when it comes to relationships. He will continue to love them, together and individually. What they do about it, is…

She stirs, silencing his thoughts. There is no sun’s rise in space, no gentle suffusion of dawn, only the unchanging hum of artificial lights, soft beeps, fluorescent glows. Whatever she does to her lashes and eye-lines is gone, wiped out into the pillows (or, more likely, on Thane himself), and without it she looks younger, more tired. Her lips, too, are lighter, the skin more delicate and matte, and her hair—her hair is a wondrous fall, taken down like this. There is so _much_ of it, nearly to her waist, and he hopes he will get to watch her twist it up, just once. So he can have that memory, to relive again and again.

And this memory, too—Shepard, stretching up, nudging her nose against his, then kissing him softly, her lips supple and dry.

He does not have a chance to react before she’s pulling back, looking slightly concerned. “I forgot to ask if drell kiss. You have lips, but that’s not—oh…”

He interrupts her by cupping her cheek and kissing her again.

“Oh,” she murmurs again when he pulls back enough to breathe. “I… suppose that’s a yes.”

“It’s a yes,” he rumbles, smiling. They have their foreheads touching—it does not mean the same as it would to a turian, but they’re both aware of the turian kiss; presumably, they’ve both done it. It feels like it means something. 

They hear the door open and don’t bother moving. Thane, at least, can tell that it’s Garrus, simply from the sound of his feet. 

“Well, that’s adorable,” he drawls. “You’re gonna make a guy feel left out.”

Shepard pulls back and smiles at him. “There’s plenty of room for you.”

“Yeah?” Garrus is still out of armor, which, considering how badly it was damaged, is understandable. He still has his visor on—Thane wonders if he slept in it, finds that he cannot remember. Perfect recall cannot bring up a memory he fails to capture in the first place. That, more than anything, proves how much he’d had to drink. “I hope you mean that metaphorically, because, let me tell you, Shepard, that bed is not built for three.”

Thane feels the laugh that passes through her, though it doesn’t manage to leave her lips. She is simply smiling, smug and happy, lips tilted and eyes shining. “Garrus. Get over here already.”

“All right, all right. Sheesh, a guy can’t even calibrate a sensor around here without getting ordered around.”

Shepard laughs again, chest spasming, and almost hiccups. “Damn right. Come on, my butt’s cold.”

“Oh, we can’t have _that_.” He rolls his eyes, but finally he goes, sliding into place behind Shepard—who immediately turns over, instead, to lean up for a turian kiss.

Thane chuckles softly, and, with the same sense that allowed them to move so smoothly together in battle, he knows his next move—to slide in, fit himself to Shepard’s back, curled protectively around her ‘cold butt’. (It is not very cold, and Thane suspects that might have been a ploy.)

“So,” Garrus says, and Thane knows—with the same simple clarity—that he is about to say something incredibly awkward. He is about to start a Discussion, one that will… well, Thane isn’t sure. He knows where he, himself stands, and he understands Garrus’s perspective, to a point. As for their _siha_ , she is a mystery. Perhaps, even, to herself.

But they will never discover what that conversation might have yielded.

“Commander,” EDI’s voice cuts in. “I apologise for the interruption, but you have an urgent comm relay from Alliance Headquarters.”

She tenses up, and they release her. Whatever troubles she has bared to them wipe away as she pulls on her gloves and jacket, and—he misses it, in his own haste to prepare himself. He turns and all her hair has been pulled up, twisted into a thick bun at the top of her head. “Well. Duty calls,” she says with a droll smile, and they only follow her until the elevator stops to let her go.


End file.
